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surprised; she had not realized Caroline would be willing to talk about her socially at all, let alone often! It gave her an unexpected feeling of pleasure, even pride, and she found herself smiling more than the occasion called for.
    The room was large and the furnishings a little austere compared to the ornate and bulging interiors that were currently popular. There were none of the usual stuffed animals in glass cases or arrangements of dried flowers, no embroidered samplers, or elaborate antimacassars across the backs of chairs. By comparison with most withdrawing rooms it seemed airy, almost bare. Charlotte found it rather pleasing, except for the phalanxes of photographs on the farthest wall, covering the top of the grand piano, and spread along the mantelshelf. They all appeared to include rather elderly people, and had been taken years before, to judge from the fashions. Obviously they were not of Ambrosine and her children, but rather of a generation earlier. Charlotte presumed the man who appeared in them so frequently was her husband—a vain man, she decided from the number of his pictures.
    There were some half-dozen highly exotic weapons displayed above the fireplace.
    Ambrosine caught Charlotte’s glance. “Horrible, aren’t they?” she said. “But my husband insists. His younger brother was killed in the first Afghan War, forty-five years ago, and he’s set them up there as a sort of memorial. The maids are always complaining that they are the perfect devil to clean. Collect dust like mad, above the fire.”
    Charlotte looked up at the knives in their ornamental sheaths and scabbards, and had nothing but sympathy for the maids.
    “Quite!” Ambrosine said fervently, observing her expression. “And they are in excellent condition. Bronwen swears someone will wind up with their throat cut one of these days. Although of course it is not her task to clean them. Heathen weapons, she calls them, and I suppose they are.”
    “Bronwen?” Caroline was at a loss.
    “My maid.” Ambrosine invited them all to be seated with a gesture of her arm. “The excellent one with the reddish hair.”
    “I thought her name was Louisa,” Caroline said.
    “I daresay it is.” Ambrosine arranged herself gracefully on the chaise longue. “But the best maid I ever had was called Bronwen, and I don’t believe in changing a good thing. I always call my personal maids Bronwen now. Also it saves confusion. There are dozens of Lilies and Roses and Marys.”
    There was no argument to this, and Charlotte was obliged to turn and look out of the window in order to hide her amusement.
    “Finding a really good maid is quite an achievement,” Caroline said, pursuing the subject. “So often those who are competent are less than honest, and those whom one can really trust are not as efficient as one would like.”
    “My dear, you sound most despondent,” Ambrosine said with sympathy. “A current misfortune?”
    “I’m really not quite sure,” Caroline plunged on. “I have missed a small article of jewelry, and I don’t know whether it is a theft or merely mischance. It is a wretched feeling. I don’t wish to be unjust when the whole affair may be quite accidental.”
    “Was it of value?” Ambrosine inquired with a little frown.
    “Not especially, except that it was a gift from my mother-in-law, and she might be hurt that I had been careless with it.”
    “Or flattered that of all your pieces someone chose that to take,” Ambrosine pointed out.
    Caroline laughed without pleasure.
    “I hadn’t even thought of that. I’m obliged to you. If she makes any observation, I must say that to her.”
    “I still think you may have mislaid it, Mama,” Charlotte said, trying to allow the subject to die. “It may well turn up in a day or two. If you let Grandmama think it has been stolen, she will begin to accuse people, and she will never let the matter rest until someone is blamed.”
    Caroline caught the sharpness in her